Midnight strikes; a far-off spine-tingling howl rents the still air. The boys’ hackles rise, teeth chatter, as footfalls clatter and claw up 199 steps leading from the bay to the ruin.
A canine shape bathed in the silver shadow of moonlight, looms large. It lurches towards them, teeth gleaming; tongue slavering towards their faces.
“Might make a good fiction story,” Jonas Bram and Barnaby Stoker laughingly read the golden Labrador’s name disc…Dracula.